Four Men and a Baby
by Milliecake
Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia. Non slash.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Four Men and a Baby

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Category: Adventure

Rating: T

Spoilers: Set between The Great Game and the introduction of Ms Adler in a Scandal

Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of prostitution and drug use

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia.

Author's Notes: Despite the title, the little heroine of my story is not the illegitimate daughter of the four men in question - I know how fandoms can get over that kind of thing. Dedicated to my little nieces - happy 1st birthday girls! - for whom changing nappies was certainly an experience...as Robin Williams once said 'What the ^%$ are they feeding you? Algae?'

Additional: The murder/suicide case at the start, I'm pretty sure, is something I saw way back when I was a teenager somewhat in love with Jeremy Brett's Sherlock. Too long ago, but if anyone can remember where it came from, much appreciation!

OoOoO

Blue and white flashes sent long shadows darting over the stony, debris-ridden bank of the river. There, several police officers wearing bright reflective vests were picking carefully through the washed up rubbish, flashlights flickering over the detritus of a rusted Sainsbury's trolley, several plastic carriers, fishing line, discarded needles.

John Watson, hands shoved into his pockets against the summer night's chill, could have told them they were wasting their time. Sherlock had already given them all the evidence they'd need to close the case. Now the rest was merely procedure and overtime. And a waste of resources in his opinion.

"Ready?" The man in question had come to stand alongside John and, following his line of sight down to the bank, he gave a little huff. Annoyance that they weren't simply taking his word for it that the recovered gun left no uncertainties. It was suicide and the fingerprints would prove it. "Idiots."

John nodded. "Let's go." Somewhere in the distance a clock was chiming. _Midnight_, he realised, with a sigh, as they trudged towards the busy main road.

He'd promised Sarah he'd go in tomorrow...well today now. One GP off on maternity leave, another on holiday, a third sick, the surgery was struggling to cope. Although he wasn't sure if the dinner she'd promised him in return was an incentive to show up and stay awake or more of an intimate invitation. He'd been wondering..._hoping_ their relationship might move on to the next level, a level that didn't involve sofas or lilos. If a killer circus act hadn't put her off, if learning her boyfriend had been used as a bomb puppet by a criminal mastermind hadn't sent her screaming...maybe nothing would. Even that bloody ASBO. Even Sherlock...

'Dependable' they'd called John in the army. Now he was dashing out in the middle of the night on the whim of his flatmate or ditching Sarah in the midst of a date or letting her down at work.

But he knew that 'safe reliable John Watson' couldn't re-emerge, not while he lived and worked with Sherlock Holmes. Not while the battlefield waged across London continued to draw him in, into ever concentric circles. An urban field of strife amongst the mundane of shops and banks and museums. If only people knew what went on under their noses.

Still, if they got back to Baker Street within the next hour, he could look forward to at least a few hours of uninterrupted rest. Assuming the criminal underclass were willing to leave off for just one night that was.

"You're quiet."

John kept his eyes on the road, away from that perceptive glance, following the double yellow lines. "Thinking. Other people do that too sometimes you know."

Alongside him in his long coat, Sherlock Holmes was trailing a red helium balloon on a ribbon, a picture of whimsical elegance as he raised a cool eyebrow. "Thinking about what?"

"It's not important." A nonchalant shrug, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't be fooled. He hadn't been overstating when he'd once said Sherlock could see through everyone. But he didn't feel comfortable talking about Sarah to his flatmate. Sherlock's response would no doubt be clinical and brutal in its honesty but skewed by his lack of understanding on relationships. "I'll write this one up tomorrow when I get home from work. Bit different I guess. A murder that's turned out to be a suicide."

Talking about the case was one way of steering Sherlock away from more intimate conversations. The man had no sense of shame or boundaries or..._humiliation_, when it came to social niceties. John still hadn't quite forgiven him for the incident a week back, when Sherlock had airily informed Lestrade and his entire division the reason for John's bad mood was because Sarah had made him sleep on the lilo yet again, that he'd missed out on a shag. As if Scotland Yard needed the details of John's sex life!

Or lack thereof.

It wasn't Sherlock's fault, John knew at heart, when he'd finally recovered from the excruciating embarrassment. He didn't do it deliberately, most times at least. Like a young child, there was just this gap, this missing part where Sherlock just didn't comprehend society's norms or even when he'd done or said something wrong or shocking, and actually seemed surprised at the reactions he caused. Didn't help that he didn't care though.

When John finally met the other's stare, Sherlock's wry, piercing look told him he knew exactly what his friend was thinking, but he let it slide. "Suicide, yes. It was obvious once I saw her lipstick."

Ok maybe he was learning, a little at a time, John conceded. Before, Sherlock probably would have rattled off exactly what he could see playing like a film strip through John's mind, with no regard for his flatmate's discomfort. "Her lipstick?" John echoed dutifully.

"Bright. Very red. Very thick."

"Right." John didn't have a clue.

Sherlock gave an impatient little sigh. "Think about it John. You've received constant threats from your ex-lover, someone so insanely jealous he can't bear to live without you. He stalks you, bombards you with text messages and leaves flowers at your work place, goes as far as to break into your flat. After living with that for weeks on end...?"

He deliberately left the question open ended. Occasionally, he liked to beckon a member of the audience, in this case John, up onto that strange, wonderful stage inside his incredible mind.

John considered. "I'd be scared, I guess. Nervous. I'd be looking over my shoulder."

"Yes but think further. If a man found you attractive, was constantly pestering you, what would you do to lessen his interest?"

"I dunno. Punch him?"

"As a woman John." The veneer of patience was thinning. "You'd dress less provocatively, less colours. Make yourself plain, unattractive, _unassuming_."

"But...she didn't, the victim didn't do any of those things." Now John was catching on. Slowly, but in his defence it was midnight and he'd been up since six.

"The make up John. Lots of make-up, including the lipstick. And lots of red, red skirt, new shoes, jacket. She'd had her hair done. And all this supposedly under the threat of death from her previous lover? Please." The last word dripped with disdain.

"So, what are you saying? She enjoyed it?"

"Enjoyed it?" Sherlock scoffed. "She _loved _it. The thrill of the chase. Imagine, all that power over one man. Imagine having someone who would be willing to do anything, _anything _at all that you ask at the drop of a hat. Cater to your every whim. At your beck and call night and day."

"Yeah, imagine that." Constant trips to Tesco's, scrubbing Sherlock's latest experiments off the walls, dashing out in the middle of work, played through John's mind.

Sherlock was either oblivious to or simply ignored John's deadpan reply. "But then he meets someone else, someone who threatens to take away his interest. Suddenly, the spotlight...is gone." A snap of his gloved fingers.

"Good god," John said, quietly, unable to help but compare the parallels. "If _you _ever decide to stitch me up for your murder like that, I'd be done for."

"Hmm?" A distracted murmur and John knew he'd gotten away with that one as well.

"But still," John persisted, as they neared the main road, the rush of traffic growing louder, busy despite the late hour. "Killing herself. That was a pretty extreme way of getting revenge."

"Revenge had nothing to do with it. Faking her own murder was just the upping of stakes, if you will. She dies, her ex-lover goes to prison for a very long time. It wasn't important that he'd stopped playing. It was the ultimate risk, dealing one final, fatal hand. For her, all that mattered was the game."

"Now that does sounds familiar," John shot back, dryly, then mentally kicked himself.

Ever since what they were delicately calling 'the pool incident' he'd avoided even thinking about that psychopath Moriarty and his 'great game'. He'd taken to calling him He Who Shall Not Be Named to Mrs Hudson...Sherlock never did get the reference of course. But an air of expectation still hung like a pall over the flat, every phone call, every case, every murder, just waiting for the needle to drop once more. Sherlock in anticipation, John in something akin to dread.

"So," he interjected, before the conversation fell on that particularly loaded topic, "she sends all the evidence of her stalking to the police, steals her lover's unlicensed gun, goes to the river and shoots herself. Nice." He'd write it differently in the blog of course.

Sherlock held out the balloon. "Exhibit A. She ties inflatables to the weapon so when the bullet enters her brain the evidence is literally washed away down stream, until the gas is depleted and the gun sinks. Nothing for the diving teams to find in the general locale so...clearly murder."

"And too much circumstantial evidence for the police to ignore."

"Clever," Sherlock smiled appreciatively, pale eyes alight under the orange glow of the streetlight. "Until the evidence was washed ashore at this particular river curvature of course. Something she clearly had failed to take into account."

Internally, John sighed. Only Sherlock could be appreciative of the underhanded, desperate dealings of the mentally deranged people they encountered on their cases.

"Still, it wasn't an actual murder," he pointed out.

"No it wasn't was it." Sherlock pulled a face, a small, playful frown. "Not sure how I feel about that to be honest."

John smiled back. "Happy maybe that an innocent man won't go to jail?"

"Hmm, maybe." Said dismissively. "Taxi!"

Sherlock never did particularly care about the victims and he was disappointingly honest about it.

But he did have an uncanny knack for finding a taxi that would stop for them. Something about the driver's placement of his hands on the steering wheel he'd once informed John.

"Two two one B Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabbie as John climbed in.

The world's only consulting detective stuck his head back outside and released the balloon. John watched as it floated upwards, skipping against the side of a building, before disappearing into the night's sky.

"So what will you call this one?" Sherlock asked, faintly curious, as he settled.

"I dunno. The Air Head Suicide?"

As the car pulled away, the resulting groan was audible.

OoOoO

Drizzle dotted the windscreen as the taxi wound through the darkened streets, turning to a light rain as they finally arrived back at the flat. _Typical_, the cabbie told them, morosely. After the last few months of dry heat and an announcement the day before on the BBC that they had officially entered a drought, the weather was changing for the worse. Right in time for Wimbledon too.

John stepped out of the cab, glad to be home, glad to have his bed ready and waiting. Stretching, he took a step forward, then pulled up short. There, on the doorstep. A large package. A very large package.

"Sherlock," he called over one shoulder. "Did you order something?" Chemicals, equipment, weaponry, more skull paraphernalia, _drugs_...

He felt the other man come to stand alongside him as the taxi pulled away and they both considered the box awaiting them, two lone men standing in the rain.

"Too late for deliveries John," Sherlock stated the obvious, eyes roaming over the item. "And the box is too old and worn to contain anything of retail value."

He took a step forward and suddenly John itched to grab his arm, drag him back. The word 'bomb' flashed through his mind, the brilliance of an exploding building flaring in his memory.

It had been two months since the pool. A mere eight weeks since Sherlock had been outsmarted not once but twice, by an insane 'criminal consultant'.

The first round had gone to Moriarty because as a 'high functioning sociopath' Sherlock had never once considered that Moriarty had actually liked watching him go through his routine, watching him 'dance'. Intellectually superior Sherlock might be but when it came to emotions, feelings, obsessions of a human nature regarding his own person, he was very much out of his depth, a devastating gap in his mental armour.

The Bruce-Partington plans had actually been Mycroft's distraction as it turned out, the older brother well aware of Moriarty's peculiar interest in Sherlock and had been desperate to stave off the inevitable confrontation. But Sherlock's brother hadn't counted on his sibling's ability to multitask both the problem created by Andrew West's murder and the puzzle of the pink phone. Or that he would deign to delegate to John.

The second time Sherlock had lost, at least according to the consulting detective if anyone cared to ask, had come moments later, the escalating brinkmanship between the pair as Sherlock pointed John's army-issue browning at the Semtex. Another game. Another test. Moriarty had wanted to see how far Sherlock was willing to go, how far he could push him, testing his limits. And now Jim Moriarty knew what those limits were.

The unexpected phonecall had ended their game prematurely, the banality of the ringtone doing nothing to lessen the tension, though subsequently John felt a jolt of adrenalin everytime he heard Staying Alive played on the radio. With the breezy, carefree manner of a game show host, Moriarty had called off his snipers. It was the wrong day to die apparently.

No wonder Mycroft was concerned. _Constantly_.

"Sherlock." John forced the words out, stiffly, in warning as Sherlock crouched down over the box.

"I'm aware," Sherlock acknowledged, softly, hand poised over the opening.

Moriarty wouldn't want Sherlock dead, John reasoned. Not like this anyhow. Nothing so simple, so...basic.

Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion as he unfolded the cardboard, bared the contents. Then rocked back on his haunches, a look of...surprise? It wasn't often something could catch the great consulting detective off guard. "John." His voice was strangely hesitant. "John, I think you should look at this."

_Must be something terrible_, John thought, steeling himself. Body parts, maybe a head? But no, Sherlock loved body parts. Especially when kept in a freshened state in the fridge.

Hunkering down beside his flatmate, John peered into the darkened box. Perplexed, he stared for a moment. As his eyes adjusted, they widened.

"That...that's not a..."

Sherlock shot him a look. "Oh I think it is."

"Bloody hell," John said, stunned. "It's a baby."

END OF CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Four Men and a Baby

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Category: Adventure/Humour

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of prostitution and drug use

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia.

Author's Notes: SpaceAnJL - that's the one, been bugging me all week so danke! -Totally-T3ii3 - again danke, glad you enjoyed the first chapter. Himitsu Uchiha - it's not newborn as this chapter reveals. No slash. Bromance? Lol I've never heard that phrase, I'll go look it up to see what it means!

OoOoO

**John**

Mouth agape, John knew he must look like an idiot, felt like an idiot, but everything he'd been through in his life up until this moment had never prepared him for this. A baby. On their doorstep. On their bloody _doorstep_!

Sherlock had reached for his penlight, was scanning the contents of the box, the basket, the newspapers stuffed down the sides, while John helplessly stared. Wrapped in blankets laced with pink, he could just about make out the tiny features, closed eyes, little button nose, rosebud mouth. The faint rise and fall of its chest, and he released a breath in relief.

Sherlock swiped a hand across the cardboard, examining his gloved fingers. "Damp but not wet," he announced. "It's not been here all that long."

It was that, coupled with the feel of the rain on the back of his head that shocked John into action. Quickly shrugging out of his donkey jacket, he hastily placed it over the sleeping baby, cardboard box and all. "Ok." His hands hovered over the box, for once unsure what to do with them. "Ok, we shouldn't panic," as the taller man suddenly swept to his feet.

"I'm not 'panicking'," came the caustic reply.

"I think I might be." John muttered, running a short hand through his hair.

His companion wasn't listening, was scanning up and down the street, alert, tense. Suddenly, Sherlock bolted, hurtling down the road, turned a corner and was gone in a swirl of coat tails in the rain.

"Right. Thanks Sherlock. Thanks for that." Said to the empty street. John looked back down. "Right, ok. Better get you inside then."

He stood up and unlocked the door, pocketing his key, then gently picked up the box, wrapping his arm around the underside in case the bottom fell out. Cardboard boxes had a tendency to do that. Manoeuvring through the door with some difficulty, he backed into the small corridor, turning towards Mrs Hudson's door.

"Mrs..!" Catching himself, he lowered his voice from a customary bellow to a hiss. "_Mrs Hudson. I need some help_."

No one appeared at her door and with a sinking heart John suddenly recalled the fuss she'd made two days ago as he'd carried her small suitcase out to the taxi. Of course, she was away, visiting family. How had he forgotten. So John did what he always did in a time of crisis. He squared his shoulders and got on with things, beginning the awkward ascent up to the flat's common room.

"Bugger," he cursed as he jolted the box on the stair railing, freezing mid step, eyes jerking downwards. The baby continued to sleep and he flushed slightly. "Sorry," he whispered, feeling stupidly embarrassed at swearing in front of a child. "Not like you understand me, right?"

Heat greeted him as he entered the room, grateful he'd remembered to put the radiator on before Sherlock had dragged him out that evening, extortionate bills from British Gas be damned. Placing his bundle carefully on the coffee table, shoving away an assorting of magazines, papers and pens, John didn't pause for a moment but hurried out, bounding up the stairs to his bedroom where he kept his medical bag, yanking off his damp jumper as he did so.

The slam of the front door and the sudden thunder on the stairs below told him Sherlock had returned and he met the other man at the common room door, the latter still catching his breath as he stripped his outer coat and scarf.

"Where is it?" Sherlock demanded and John was quick to hush him.

"Keep your voice down," he chided in a hiss. "And it's not an 'it'. It's a baby."

"It's evidence," Sherlock countered, yanking off his gloves, "and one abandoned mere minutes ago for us to find." Impatient he followed on John's heels as they entered the common room, carelessly tossing his wet overcoat onto John's armchair. "No sign of the mother though. Must have left as soon as we arrived."

"That...that's good," John replied, as he set his medical bag down on the coffee table, then headed into the kitchen, rolling up his shirt sleeves. "She was keeping watch then, making sure her baby was picked up. Don't touch anything, alright?" he called back.

He scrubbed his hands as thoroughly as he could, glad he'd insisted on buying anti-bacterial soap. With a flatmate who conducted experiments using potentially lethal chemicals and bacterias in the same area where they prepared and cooked food, one could never be too careful.

He re-entered the room to find Sherlock bent over the baby, magnifying glass in one hand, but he wasn't touching anything which was good. Germs and babies made a pretty bad mix, in John's experience.

The damp was soaking through the cardboard, wouldn't be long before it reached the blankets, and he reached in with as much care as he could muster, gently taking out the large wicker basket cradling the baby. As he did so an envelope slipped out, the thin paper snatched mid air before it could hit the carpet as Sherlock pounced with his cat-like reflexes. The consulting detective immediately carried his new-found prize over to the desk, flicking on the lamp.

Burning with curiosity, but with his arms literally full, John set about dealing with his charge. He'd done courses more recently, brushed up on the latest texts, seen enough babies in his work at the surgery to know any immediate danger signs. _Poor little mite_, he thought. _You don't even realise your mum's done a runner._ He set the basket down on the coffee table and began to unwrap the blankets.

A few minutes of silence followed, broken only by the sound of rustling paper as Sherlock scanned the envelope, rifled haphazardly through the newspapers in the now defunct cardboard box, the clink of medical equipment as John rummaged in his bag.

"Congratulations," John said at last into the quiet room.

It took a moment for Sherlock to register he'd spoken. "Sorry what?" Looking up from the box, a frown creasing his features.

"It's a girl," John replied, with a quick grin.

"Funny John."

"Actually the uh, the pink kind of gave it away."

Sherlock returned to the desk, picking up the envelope. "Female," he said, tilting the lamp downwards, pinpricks of light in focused, grey eyes.

"That's what I just said."

"What? No. The note. Written by a woman, the mother."

"Oh. Right. _Obviously._" The baby had barely stirred, which, considering the hullabaloo, considering John's examination right down to the nappy, was worrying. In John's experience at the surgery, babies usually took the opportunity to scream their lungs out as soon as they entered his office. This one, though, was quiet, oddly so. But he couldn't see any immediate signs of trouble though, no rashes, spots, no breathing difficulties, no fever, no floppy limbs. She'd need a proper check up though, paediatrics wasn't really his field.

Tenderly tucking the blankets back in, John took a seat on the sofa and picked up his notebook to write his observations, something that might be handy for the next GP to examine her. Probably recently fed judging by the distended tummy, hopefully the reason for her lethargy too. Definitely not a newborn, though likely underweight. He'd need the surgery scales to be sure. He thought maybe four to six weeks old. No signs of any addiction passed on by the mother. Well looked after, decent baby clothes, though outgrowing them fast. Tapping the pen against his lips, he considered what appeared to be a normal, healthy baby girl lying sound asleep in a basket on their coffee table.

"Russian."

The statement out of the blue was a siren's lure and unable to stop himself, John slowly rose off the couch, his curiosity piqued. With one eye on the basket, he edged over to the desk, peering upside-down at the note Sherlock was reading. There was absolutely nothing he could see that would lead to that particular deduction. "How?" he asked, simply, sinking into the opposite chair.

"Here," Sherlock said, displaying the note and pointing one elegant finger at the scrawling script. "The ink is heaviest on the bottom left of the characters. So she was more used to writing in Cyrillic than in English. Her English is good though, so that tells us immigrant, but educated. The stationary was taken from an office. She worked there recently but it wasn't her original job." He leaned back in the chair. "Now the blankets, the blankets have a distinctive weave, the cotton grown in Russia, Baltic states don't generally import from Russia, more likely _to_. Homespun, sewn by hand, not professional but with care, so by a female relative, mother or aunt, but if she had family here she would have gone to them first. The gifts were sent here. Just as she was."

There was a moment of silence as John digested Sherlock's latest bout of deductive brilliance. "Right, so Russian then," he said, after a moment. He turned the discarded envelope over. It was entitled 'Mr Holmes'. "She knew your name."

"Of course she knew my name." Sherlock's expression had taken on a distant look, working it all out in that amazing, confounding brain of his. Long legs stretched out before him, he steepled his fingers under his chin as he mused, "A mother who abandons her child but doesn't actually leave until she knows her daughter has been found? She wouldn't have left her with random strangers."

"Can I?" John asked, gesturing at the note. Sherlock waved an indolent hand and John reached over. "'This is our daughter Anna'," he read aloud. "'I am in trouble and they will take her. Please take very good care of her.' Not signed or anything." He pointed out, turning the note over. Then what he'd just read hit him.

He paused, staring at Sherlock. Then re-read the note, then peered again at Sherlock. Checked the back of the note. Blank. The man sitting opposite seemed completely lost in thought.

"So," John began, unsure how to even begin such a..._delicate _conversation. "You, uh, your...this is your..." He gestured helplessly at the note then realised Sherlock was staring at him with a confused, irritated frown. "Your daughter," John finished, forcing a bland, non-judgemental smile that felt more like rictus, calmly folding his hands as he awaited the explanation. He was a doctor, he'd informed families of paternity test results a few times, he could hear this. Even coming from his strange, supposedly married-to-his-work flatmate.

That first conversation at Angelo's, he'd assumed Sherlock was...well, he still didn't actually know what Sherlock was. The thought of him with an actual woman seemed somehow..._disturbing_. _Unnatural_. _Wrong_. John mentally shook his head, none of those descriptions seemed apt. Although he had a feeling Sherlock would barely react should a female of their species have the sudden, overwhelming urge to throw her knickers over her head and sit naked in his lap.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied, tetchily. "Of course it's not mine."

Right. "_She, _Sherlock, it's a _she_. And how do you know?" _Oh god did I really ask that_.

"Well my medical knowledge isn't quite as up-to-date as your own, _doctor_," came the dry response, "but I believe procreation still requires some form of human intimacy."

"And you've not, you know..." John realised in mortification he was doing that thing, with his hands. Maybe he should put on sock puppets, graphically demonstrate to his flatmate about the birds and the bees. He felt his face growing hot.

"No."

"...in the last year or so," John finished, at the same time. _And now it's awkward_, he thought, in the sudden, deafening silence, his ears burning. _Brilliant_. Still, not like he could judge. Army, injury, discharge and moving in with Sherlock, there hadn't been a lot of good, or even bad, opportunities for a man like him in the last year either. "Ok. O...kay. Right. Fine."

Sherlock was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind, never a good sign. "First of all, John, I can fully recount for my daily interactions in 'the last year or so' and in none of them did I participate in intercourse with a woman. Secondly," he picked up the envelope, held it out between two fingers as if handing over a business card, "if you had performed copulation with a member of the opposite sex which resulted in a child, would you still address them by their honorific and surname? Not exactly a great love affair, not even knowing your paramour'sfirst name."

Something akin to mocking amusement was sparkling in his eyes as he tilted his head to consider John, the way he toyed with the word _paramour_...he was enjoying this, John suddenly realised, enjoying his flatmate's embarrassment.

"Alright, alright," John said, holding up his hands in surrender.

"Then there's the newspaper." Sherlock indicated with an aloof incline of his head to the crumpled paper taken from the box and discarded on the desk. Glad of the distraction, John unfurled it, smoothed it over.

There in black and white was a picture of Sherlock at a crime scene and a write up on one of his recent cases. "This was that murder in Soho." John recognised the names as he read down. "Wait a minute, they've lifted this bit off my blog. The entire sodding lot!" Outraged, he slapped it down on the desk. "I should bloody well sue."

"Yes but imminent lawsuits aside, what does it tell us?"

Still seething, John looked down at the article once more, an inkling of an idea popping into his head. "She...read this, the baby's mother. Thought you were someone she could trust."

"_Thought _I was someone she could trust...?"

John ignored the indignant tone. "But well, if you're not the baby's father then..."

"Then the question is," Sherlock picked up smoothly, straightening in his chair, his look intent, "who is. And where is the mother, why she left her child and what kind of trouble..." His brow furrowed as John picked up his mobile off the desk, began dialling and his voice suddenly lost it's weighty tone. "What are you doing?" he demanded, petulantly.

"Calling Social Services," John explained, pressing his mobile to his ear with his shoulder as he flipped to a blank page on his notebook. "If you're not the father then legally we can't...Yes? Hello, I'm calling about an abandoned child at two two...Sherlock, _what the hell are you playing at_?"

Sherlock had lunged across the desk and snatched the mobile away, flipping it shut. John made to grab it back but Sherlock, being Sherlock, pushed back in his chair and lifted the phone that little bit higher away from his reach. Absurdly, it reminded John of the 'keep away' game he'd played with his younger sister Harry. Until a growth spurt on her part, a lack of one on his, had levelled the playing field.

"We can't inform Social Services," Sherlock told him. "Not yet at any rate."

"Sherlock, it's a baby..."

"And here I thought you kept insisting 'it' was a _she_..."

"_She's _a baby. We can't keep her here!" Gritting his teeth, John was forced to lower his voice, to remain even, calm, as he explained slowly as if to a young child. "She's not evidence Sherlock. She's not a clue..."

"I beg to differ..."

"And we don't have the...the necessary _things _to look after her." He gestured helplessly around the room at the absolutely chaos, the unhoovered carpet, the books scattered on the furniture, the papers strewn across the floor. The cow skull above the desk. A kitchen so unhygienic he was amazed neither of them had developed food poisoning. "Quite frankly, I wouldn't let a dog roam loose in this place let alone a child."

"Again, my knowledge of infant maturation might be somewhat inferior to your own Doctor, but I don't think this child will be running 'loose' any time within the next twenty four hours."

"She needs proper care and..." John looked up, suspicious. "Twenty four hours?"

"The time I estimate it will take to find the mother."

_A day_? John glanced over his shoulder at the basket, considering, then quickly shook his head. What was he _thinking_? "No, even one _hour _is too long...look Sherlock, child protection can take her somewhere safe while we figure this thing out."

"Oh really." Said flatly.

"Yes, of course. It's their job." John hesitated, not liking the knowing gleam in his flatmate's eyes. He crossed his arms, belligerent. "Go on then. You tell me why we can't let Social Services have her."

"Well first of all we need to consider her mother's profession," Sherlock replied, his voice softer, as if he was attempting to be delicate for once.

"You said she worked in an office," John protested.

"Before the office. The one that no doubt contributed to her condition. The reason she was brought over from her native country, tricked or, more likely, coerced into one of the oldest trades in the history of the world."

At his suggestive look, the slightly raised eyebrows, sudden realisation dawned on John. "No. No, she couldn't have been..." He glanced back at the basket. "Her mother was a, a..."

"Whore, yes," Sherlock finished, with callous disregard, abandoning the pretense of sensibility.

"Don't...say that," John hissed back, acutely aware of the baby behind them.

"Why? It..._she _doesn't understand," Sherlock pointed out. He rose, began to pace, steepled fingers at his lips. "The mother wasn't a street walker, no, something more upmarket going by the good quality of the basket, the clothes. She was alone, no family, unlikely close friends. Her pregnancy forced her employers to find her a somewhat atypical line of work, albeit temporarily. She gives birth and is allowed to keep the child. Her infant is taken care of, the fact it didn't awaken at your examination suggests comfort in being handled by a variety of people. Most likely looked after by the other wh..." he barely paused, a darting look at the basket, "workers." He stopped in the middle of the room, considering.

"I'm still listening," John reminded him firmly, after a moment.

"What? Oh yes." Sherlock turned, paced back towards the desk. "A month, six weeks, goes by after the birth, then something happens, enough to make her panic and run. She escapes her former employers and who wouldn't? People involved in human trafficking, certainly drugs and prostitution, probable racketeering, gambling, murder..."

"Alright alright, I get the idea."

Sherlock's near-frenzied movements matched his leaps of logic. "She spends time at a refuge, but not for long. Something or more likely someone scares her off, and she spends the next four days homeless, doesn't know what to do. Then she reads this." In a deft move he snatched up the letter opened and speared it through the newspaper article, nailing it to the desk.

_Wonderful, more vandalism of the furniture_, John thought, with a weary sigh.

Sherlock's eyes slid up to meet John's across the desk as he leant forward, hands resting either side of the newspaper. "Do you _see_ now?"

"No," John replied, honestly, receiving an impatient noise in return. "Look, _why _abandon her baby? Why _not _go to Social Services?"

"_Think _John. Why would you entrust your child into the hands of strangers rather than an organisation set up to help people like her?"

"Because..." John considered. "She was afraid they'd take Anna away." His answer was hesitant. It wasn't an uncommon fear for mothers who found themselves in dire situations.

"Oh much more than that," Sherlock said, with a smile that was in no way pleasant. "Take her away and more specifically, give her back to the very people the mother was running from."

It took another moment for John to catch on. "No. No, wh...are you're seriously suggesting Social Services is somehow involved in a criminal gang? Sherlock, come on..."

Most people who had the privilege and poor luck to meet Sherlock Holmes on a case initially scoffed at his wild deductions, his seemingly rash and reckless claims...until he deigned to spell it out for their closed, simple minds. Since that very first ride in the taxi, where Sherlock had blinded him with a stunning, near accurate resume of John's life story, John had stopped being one of those people. But he couldn't help some scepticism this time. He knew these people...

"Suggesting? No. I _know _John, because the _mother _knew. She didn't claim I was her child's father in the hope of convincing _me_. She knew if she made that claim, it would be harder for them to remove the child if there was paternal responsibility."

"The word of the mother," John echoed, quietly. It was an old phrase, a throw back to a time before paternity tests were widely available. He ran an exhausted hand down his face.

He still wasn't convinced about Social Services. He'd dealt with their people in his work at the surgery, wonderful, dedicated people, overworked and underfunded but they did their best and they were always willing to see any referrals he made. To think one or maybe more were involved in a gang that had already terrified one young mother into abandoning her child...

At that moment a noise came from the basket, a very distinct baby sound. Anna was waking.

"Oh Chr..." John caught himself, spun to Sherlock, slightly alarmed. "What do we do?" he asked, then wondered at the absurdity of even even posing that question to the man before him.

An epiphany came to him and both men shared a sudden, lightning look of comprehension.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Mrs Hudson," John suggested, at the exact same time, as they both reached for John's phone.

END OF CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Four Men and a Baby

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Category: Adventure/Humour

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of prostitution and drug use

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia.

Author's Notes: Another question for some of the world's greatest fiction detectives - I'm looking for a fic where Sherlock loses his memory, ye olde amnesia tale. Not sure if such a fic exists, has about a billion Sherlock stories on it but I can't seem to find one.

Sherlock Alert! Repeat of Season One starting on July 20th 2011 on the BBC.

OoOoO

**Lestrade**

"What? No," Sherlock hissed, impatiently, dismissing John's suggestion out of hand, once again holding the phone aloft to the stockier man's chagrin. "Don't you _remember?_ Mrs Hudson is away until tomorrow." Said in the very same irritable tone when he felt John, or anyone else for that matter, was being unbelievably stupid.

"I know that," John said, implacable, holding his hand out for the phone. Damn Sherlock's longer reach. Another sound from the basket, this one a little more awake and insistent than the last. "But she must have an idea how we can take care of this baby and I've got her sister's...look, it's _my _sodding phone."

Predictably Sherlock ignored him, was already texting his own message to Lestrade. "Mine's in my coat pocket," he said, sounding aggrieved at the prospect of having to retrieve it.

"The coat that's lying right behind y...you know what? Never mind." John shoved to his feet, pushing the chair back with slightly more force than necessary and traipsed over to the armchair, began rummaging roughly, pointedly through the pockets of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock had a tendency to snatch up whatever item was closest, most convenient, or wait unmoving for anything up to an hour for someone to pass him the desired object, and John still wasn't sure if it was sheer and utter laziness or some strange, autistic by-product of the man's mental genius. It was annoying whatever it was.

Sherlock had finished his brief message by the time John had finally dug out his phone, the younger man carelessly discarding the pilfered mobile onto the desk and sliding into the chair John had just vacated, opening up the laptop. _John's _laptop.

"Sherlock, that's my..." John's protest over the unasked use of his stuff was cut short as his call to Mrs Hudson's sister was answered by a confused and very sleepy woman at the other end. As he apologised for the late hour, explained who he was, he was acutely aware Sherlock had broken through his latest password with sickening ease.

"Sarah123?" his flatmate commented in an amused, patronising tone. "The name of your girlfriend followed by a simple numerical sequence? Really John."

"You could just get your own bloody...hello? Mrs Hudson? No sorry, I wasn't talking to you."

"Dr Watson love, do you know what time it is?" their landlady chided from the other end of the line.

"I know and I'm so sorry to wake you Mrs Hudson," he began, "but we've got an emergency..."

"Oh dear, it's not the boiler again is it? I had a man out to look at that last week. Charged me fifteen pound an hour and didn't even fix the water pipe..."

"No, no, the hot water is fine. It's, uh, it's something else."

Through the sounds of Sherlock's sporadic, furious typing, John moved to sit on the sofa as the baby's limbs became more animated, one little hand brushing over delicate, closed eyelids. _Please, please stay asleep a little while longer_, John pleaded silently as he briefly explained the situation to Mrs Hudson.

"I have to say I still don't think it's decent," Mrs Hudson said, sounding doubtful, as John watched little stubby digits flex. "I know Elton John's got one now and all..."

"No, it's not like that Mrs Hudson," John protested. He clearly hadn't explained it all that well.

"...and you're not even married like Mrs Turner's two."

"I have a _girlfriend _Mrs Hudson," he firmly reminded her, resisting the urge to drop his head into his hands.

"Of course you do, dear." She was indulging him.

"Sarah? You know, the woman who came up to the flat that eve...look never mind. I just need some advice here." He glanced up from the phone, "Sherlock pass me my notebook."

Barely breaking his typing stride, Sherlock snatched up the pad and tossed it over his shoulder without looking. It landed in a flutter of paper straight into John's lap.

"Thanks. Right go on Mrs Hudson."

Two minutes later, he had five pages full of scribbled directions and was feeling more confident. Well, less terrified at least. "Mrs Hudson you are a life saver," he told her, in relief.

"Oh it's no trouble love. And it's funny because I was just saying to my sister today, in our day we didn't have all these fancy..."

John cut off the call. Hesitating before closing the phone, his thumb drifted over the shortcut to Sarah's mobile number. But then he recalled how tired she'd been that morning, worn out and nearly overwhelmed by the addition to her normal workload and that was before the day had barely begun. She was good at her job, good with the patients, good at the admin side of things, and he'd be hard pressed to recall a time when she'd complained about any of it. He couldn't burden her with this as well.

He saw Harry's number and almost laughed, setting the phone down on the coffee table. She'd be worse than Sherlock and that was saying something. Clara had been the maternal one, the one who was sweet with kids, who John sometimes caught looking wistfully at the children in the park...

Thoughts of his sister's ex-wife flew out of his mind as Anna opened her eyes.

For a moment, John floundered, the sickening knot of tension that had coiled inside his belly tightening almost unbearably. But his doctor's instincts snapped into place, compassion taking over as pale blue eyes began to take in his stranger's face. Her eyesight wouldn't be strong, smiling at babies was usually more for the parents' sake, but he smiled anyway, putting one finger that seemed huge in comparison under one chubby, roving hand.

"Hello," he greeted, softly, as she latched onto his finger with a surprisingly strong grip. She was still sleepy, but there was an alertness in her eyes that made the tendrils of worry that had gripped him earlier unfurl slightly. "Sherlock," he called, quietly, to the other man's back, "she's awake."

"Wonderful. You question her while I get on with some proper work."

"Don't mind him," John told Anna, in that soft, silly voice all adults seemed to use with babies, as she tried to capture his finger with both hands, "he's going to find your mum for you." Her eyes went from his finger to his face at that precise moment, as if she'd heard his promise. "Yes he will." He tickled gently at her tummy with his free fingers. "Oh yes he will."

"Oh no he won't," came Sherlock's acerbic interruption, "if he can't _think_. John, let Lestrade in, if you will."

John looked up, ears pricking. He hadn't heard the sound of a car outside. "He's here?" As he spoke, there came the familiar crunch of wheels on wet tarmac, a car turning into their street. Reclaiming his finger, he clattered down the stairs, hearing the slam of a car door, desperately grabbing for the front door latch before Lestrade could bang out his presence on the knocker and disturb the baby.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, collar turned up against the rain, nodded a short greeting at John as he pushed past, before heading straight up the stairs.

"You do know what time this is Sherlock?" he demanded as he strode into the flat's common room.

While never a particular crisp dresser, his shirt was slightly rumpled from a day's wear, his hair mussed as if he'd hurriedly finger combed it into place. He'd been sleeping, John realised, wondering why that came as a surprise. Only Sherlock seemed to possess nocturnal habits that would put an insomniac to shame.

"I'm quite aware, thank you," was the dry response from the desk.

"And now I'm here, so what's the emergency?"

"You didn't tell him?" John asked, pushing past the Inspector to retake his seat on the sofa.

"He didn't," Lestrade confirmed, then seemed to take in the presence of the basket, the small noises Anna was making as she kicked her legs restlessly against the blankets. "_That_..." He said, then paused, running a heavy hand down his face as if to check he was actually awake. John could only sympathise. "That had better not be what I think it is."

John gave him a weary smile. "Yep. Yes she is."

Lestrade hesitated, the usually unflappable, stoic Inspector seeming to struggle to find the words that would make sense out of the situation. "You have a baby in your flat," he said at last.

"Astounding observation Detective Inspector," was Sherlock's disparaging reply. Typing abruptly ceasing, he turned sharply and held out the note to Lestrade.

The Inspector glanced warily from the note to the baby, to John, then back to the note. Striding across the carpet, he snatched the paper, reading through the brief contents, before giving Sherlock a strange, searching look. Observing it happen, John felt somewhat validated for his own earlier reaction.

Feeling the Inspector's curious eyes on him, Sherlock gave a fractious sigh and shut the laptop with a hard snap. "No, it isn't mine. No, I did not sleep with the mother," he parroted, exasperated.

"I never said you did," Lestrade replied, blandly.

John wondered if the thought of Sherlock having children disturbed everyone who knew him. "We found her on the doorstep," he put in, helpfully. "Sherlock thinks he can find the mother in a few hours."

"Great. And now perhaps one of you can tell me the very good reason you dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night rather than call Social Services."

"I tried," John pointed out. "Sherlock told me not to. Well, took my phone off me so I couldn't."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade queried, turning to the other man. "Want to tell me why you did that?"

"Because," Sherlock began, rising to face them, eyes alight, seemingly seized with an impossible idea, "the Serious Crimes Division had nothing on Anatoly Vasiliev a year ago and knowing their level of incompetence, now he's back in the country, they'll miss their one opportunity to finally stop him."

In the confused silence that followed, Anna, no doubt feeling neglected, began to cry.

OoOoO

Sherlock restlessly paced the carpeted floor, his brow knitted in either deep thought or irritability, as Lestrade spoke into his phone, trying to keep his voice low as he barked orders.

John was once again left fussing over the baby. "Ssh, it's alright," he told her, gently, rubbing her blanketed chest as her face scrunched, threatening more spilled tears. "I don't understand what's going on either."

"Yes, right now Sergeant," Lestrade snapped, rubbing at his temple with one finger, no doubt the onset of a migraine or at the very least a headache, one of the drawbacks of working with someone as highly strung Sherlock. "Yes, I'm aware of the time. This is urgent, get it done." His tone brooking no argument, he shut the phone, swinging round to pin Sherlock with a hard stare. "You need to explain this to me right now."

Or tried to pin as Sherlock continued to pace. "Oh it's obvious, isn't it?" the younger man said, airily, waving a dismissive hand.

"No, it isn't," John told him shortly. "Take us through it."

Sherlock pulled up abruptly, heaving a sigh of frustration at their clearly obtuse thinking, but responding to John's curt tone nonetheless. "Look, something happened a week ago to make the child's mother run. A little more than a week ago Anatoly Vasiliev re-entered the country after the collapse of his trial in Russia."

"And Anatoly Vasiliev is...?" Lestrade prompted.

"Mafia. It's well known. Don't they teach you anything at Scotland Yard?" Sherlock demanded, wrinkling his nose in a derisory manner. "No nevermind, don't answer that. The SCD has been looking at Vasiliev for years, but witnesses either disappeared or refused to testify. They had nothing on him but luckily for them he was arrested on a trip back to Russia eight months ago. Unluckily however, his trial for murder recently collapsed, no doubt after paying whatever bribe the prosecutor's office had demanded. Now he's back in _this _country and reasserting control over his territory."

"And?" Lestrade urged, looking as blank as John still felt.

"What do you mean 'and'?" Sherlock snapped back. "It's all there, black and white. Don't you _see_?" At John's raised eyebrows, he stopped and ran a hand through his dark hair, clearly chafing at the restraint of their incomprehension. "Look, his organisation was being run in absentia, fragmenting as it did so. Some of his people would have sold out to other criminal gangs, some would have started their own petty syndicates. Others not so keen on the more immoral side of the business perhaps turned a blind eye to something he wouldn't have. In regaining control, he did something to make the child's mother run."

"Maybe he wanted her to go back to her original line of work," John suggested.

"Possibly. More likely it was to do with her child. _Think _John, these people had already trafficked the mother."

"You're saying..." John shot a glance at Anna and suddenly felt nauseous. His hand tightened unconsciously on the basket's handle, a fierce, protective emotion boiling up in his chest. Bloody bastards.

"They were going to sell her child." Lestrade sounded unsurprised. He suddenly looked haggard to John's eyes and not just from being awoken in the middle of the night.

John had seen a lot, too much he'd once told Sherlock, but it had been combat, war, with rules of engagement and consideration for civilians.

Lestrade had seen a lot too, John realised, but it wasn't men fighting and killing each other on a battlefield. It was victims, helpless women, young children, people who had been hurt, people who had been killed, without any chance of defending themselves...people lying dead in a gutter. Lestrade had once told John he was desperate and John was slowly beginning to understand exactly where that desperation sprang from.

"What does a young baby fetch on the black market, Inspector?" Sherlock's voice was coldly, clinically curious.

"Too much," was the frank answer. "Sherlock, just tell me what you need."

"Contact the SCD, tell them to put Vasiliev's men under surveillance, _all _of them," Sherlock shot out, quickly. "And I'll need a list of names of those working in child protection at the local borough."

Lestrade didn't waste time arguing, simply headed into the kitchen, already keying in numbers as he began making the necessary calls.

"What about the mother?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock. "Shouldn't we be looking for her?"

"Leave that to me," the younger man replied, somewhat more subdued now. There was an odd shadow in his eyes that John couldn't quite place, but Sherlock turned away, a little too fast at John's probing look and followed Lestrade into the kitchen.

"We should probably tidy up a bit," John called, as he looked forlornly around at the mess. In the Army the adage 'a place for everything and everything in its place' had been followed strictly to the letter. John had always loved order. But living at 221B it seemed more a place for everything was any place Sherlock chose to abandon it, drop it or throw it aside. "Get your chemistry set out of the kitchen and..." _And what? Throw everything out? Burn it? Completely gut and remodel? _he thought, helplessly. Another thought struck him and he called, "Sherlock, is that human heart still in the microwave?"

The absurdity of it all suddenly struck him and he resisted the bubbling urge to laugh. He was beyond tired, he realised, running his hands through his hair, and things had stopped making sense the moment they'd found the baby on the doorstep. In consideration, to be fair, things had really stopped making sense the moment he'd first met Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock hadn't bothered to reply but Anna was fussing again, no more tears but clearly unhappy. Either hungry or wet, John guessed. Or most likely both. They needed a clean, sanitized area. They needed nappies and baby milk and bottles and towels and all that baby paraphernalia. But what they really needed, and he knew he'd have the feminist movement marching on their flat if he ever said it aloud, was a woman.

"Since Social Services is out," Lestrade said, striding back into the common room and crouching down beside John and the basket, "I'll ask around, see if I can find someone in the division willing to take her. But I doubt I'll find anyone tonight. I'd ask the wife, but well..." He trailed off, looking suddenly morose and embarrassed, before cocking his head to regard John, evaluating him with a surprising penetrating look. "You think you're up to this?"

"He'll be fine," Sherlock cut in airily from the kitchen, before John could even respond.

John glared at the sliding doors, then glanced at Lestrade, giving a brief nod in reply.

"Do you actually know how to look after a baby?" Lestrade sounded curious.

John sighed, grimaced. "I've got instructions," he said, with false cheerfulness, half-heartedly lifting the notepad.

Lestrade nodded as if it was exactly what he had expected and stood, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of the door. "I'll make us some coffee," was all he said.

END OF CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Four Men and a Baby

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Category: Adventure/Humour

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of prostitution and drug use

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia.

Author's Notes: Boo last Sherlock of the year today :(

OoOoO

**John**

A sudden clatter from the kitchen and Sherlock blazed out, noisily dumping a box full of test tubes and laboratory equipment on the table by the TV as he did so, clearly uncaring of the risk of breakage. Suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, hair in even more disarray than usual, he had for once been doing as John requested... cleaning out the kitchen. And for a man who could seemingly only find order in his own disorganisation, it was clear Sherlock wasn't relishing the task.

Of course, it had taken Lestrade and his no-nonsense manner to back John up, having had five years experience of dealing with Sherlock's childish side to know exactly where his pressure points were.

"Sherlock, either you clean this up or I will," he had threatened, implacable, waving a hand over the kitchen table. "And if I do it, I won't be held responsible for any of your experiments that I end up flushing down the toilet."

And John had been impressed. Sherlock had argued and insulted and thrown what John could only describe as a tantrum, generally looking and acting twelve years old, but had finally been forced to give in, albeit with poor grace.

He hadn't been joking when he said he really didn't like being bullied.

"I _told _you, no marked cars," he snapped angrily to Lestrade as he strode to the windows, dragging the curtain back.

"And I told you they'll come with what they have," Lestrade shot back, standing as the flare of headlights briefly lit up the room, a car rolling to a stop outside. "It's 3am Sherlock," he called back, as he descended the stairs, heading for the front door. "You can't expect miracles."

John blinked as he realised it was early morning now, feeling the grittiness behind his eyes as he rubbed them with his palms, feeling the uncomfortably empty and utterly weary sensation that came with sleep deprivation. _So much for a nice warm bed to look forward to_, he thought, morosely, leaning over the baby who had been alternating between high pitched wails and little choked sobs for the last twenty minutes, her face blotchy and unhappy. "Not long now," he promised, feeling absolutely horrible that she was having to suffer like this.

It was a form of torture, something about children being sick or injured or going hungry tugged at John's heartstrings in a way that was unbearable. None of this was her fault but she was relying on him to look after her, keep her safe and happy. He felt like he was failing her with every minute that passed.

"Sir, do I really want to know what _he _needs all this stuff for?"

The familiar, strident voice from the bottom of the stairs made John close his eyes as Sherlock rolled his, the other man pushing away from the window and heading back into the kitchen.

"Probably not, no," John heard Lestrade answer, honestly enough.

Footsteps on the stairs and Lestrade pushed through the side door into the kitchen, carrying several carrier bags. _Thank god for Tesco Express twenty four hour_, John thought.

Following woodenly behind, feet dragging on the stairs, was Sergeant Sally Donovan, uninvited. John forced himself not to look at her knees. She glanced into the kitchen with a sniff, crossing her arms, then wandered towards the common room, pausing to lean on the door jam as her eyes roved around the room with a disdainful air.

"Still living with the freak then," she commented, snidely, not even bothering to look at John. "Though what you and him get up to at this time of night is..."

At that moment, Anna let out a long, wailing cry, which ended in a sequence of hiccups and, unable to stand seeing her so upset and miserable, John instinctively reached out, lifting her out of the basket, carefully holding her head as he cradled her, attempted to soothe her.

"Oh. My. God," Sally Donovan said, pushing away from the door, her eyes huge as she took in the scene. "You're not...no way, you can't be serious..."

In the kitchen the microwave beeped and John gave the Sergeant a mild smile.

Lestrade entered the room, his own sleeves rolled up, carrying a bottle in one hand which he handed to John. "Problem Sergeant?" he asked, blandly.

Mouth open, she gestured at John and the baby as if that explained everything. "You're letting them keep a _baby _here, Sir?"

"I'm not _letting _them do anything. We have a missing person's case to attend to with the SCD. And yes we will look into a more suitable home for this kid, but in the meantime..."

"Sir, we've been here on drugs busts."

"I'm aware of that Sergeant."

"He was keeping _eyes _in the _microwave_...!" Sally all but wailed.

"I need you to do your job."

"No," she shook her head, vehemently. "No. This isn't right."

"And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Sally?" Sherlock called tauntingly from the kitchen and she strode over to the door.

"You're sick," she spat, hands on hips. "I wouldn't trust you to look after my goldfish, freak."

"Now that's not a very nice way to speak about Anderson, is it," he shot back, spitefully.

Wordlessly, she turned to Lestrade and, seeing no sign of agreement or support, stormed down the stairs.

"Goodnight Sally," Sherlock sing-songed from the kitchen as the front door slammed shut.

OoOoO

In the end it was Lestrade who fed the baby, John ashamedly hopeless. It was a harrowing battle just to calm her down long enough to get her interested in the heated bottle.

"The trick," the Inspector explained, demonstrating, "is to get this part to the back of her mouth so there isn't any air. Keep the bottle tilted. She'll let you know when she's had enough."

John took back what he'd considered earlier, about needing a woman to look after the baby. All they'd really needed was a modern day father.

Lestrade had kids, was an expert, at least from John's perspective. It was a shame that he couldn't persuade the other man to stay and look after Anna. At that moment in time, with fraught, sleepless hours stretching out before him, John was more than willing to trade places catching Russian criminals and corrupt social workers and leave Lestrade's unshakeable, capable presence to look after the baby.

"Can get messy," Lestrade warned, wryly, as the milk made an abrupt reappearance which he skilfully caught and wiped away. "For months after my kids were born, I'd find the stuff on my shirt, on my tie, in my bloody hair. Guys in the division knew, would constantly take the mick."

John faked a smile and used a wad of kitchen roll to surreptitiously dab at the growing stain on his own shirt. Who knew that babies could projectile vomit so far.

OoOoO

"Ok so you just add the Actimel," Lestrade said, as he shrugged on his coat, "zap the whole bottle in the microwave then test it on the back of your hand."

"Right, got it," John nodded, scribbling in the now invaluable notepad.

"And don't let Sherlock use the bottom of the fridge for anything. It's clean. Same goes for the microwave."

"If he does, I'll threaten to hide his skull." Said with a smile. "Always works for Mrs Hudson."

"If you need anything, anything at all, call me." Lestrade hesitated. "Now you're certain you're ok with this? I'm trusting you."

"I'll do my best," John promised. "If it gets too much we'll think of something else."

Lestrade nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"I'll see you out, Inspector," Sherlock offered, politely, earlier snit clearly out of system. He had finished his tasks in the kitchen, had donned and re-buttoned his suit jacket, smoothing out an invisible crease on one cuff.

John watched them disappear down the stairs with a small frown. There was something off about Sherlock's demeanor, that strange, pensive look from earlier. He knew that Sherlock would hide things, could lie barefaced without a shred of qualm, could act a part and utterly convince people, even if those feigned emotional displays were entirely alien to him. But something told John he wasn't acting now, that maybe John was just getting better at reading Sherlock and for one surprising moment he had actually managed to catch the consulting detective with his guard down.

Anna was sleeping soundly once more, finally dry, warm and fed and John wandered over to the window, tugging back the curtain to watch the two men exit the flat, Sherlock heedlessly following Lestrade out into the drizzle, conversing closely with the Inspector. Whatever he said made Lestrade shoot a look up at the flat to where John stood, his expression grim.

"Right," John said, stepping away from the window. He took up his usual position on the sofa, flicking through his notebook until Sherlock returned. "So what was it you told Lestrade?" he asked, keeping his voice mild.

"Hmm?" Sherlock opened a drawer on the desk and tossed in what John guessed was Lestrade's police identification.

John would have to remember to give it back to the Inspector when he next saw him. "Whatever it was that you had to go out into the rain to tell him," he continued. "Must have been something important."

"Oh just business," Sherlock said, ambiguously, sweeping up his coat and slipping it on.

John looked up from the notebook as he noticed his flatmate's movements. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Going out. I thought that would be blindingly obvious, even to you."

Alarmed, John leapt to his feet. "No, no...you can't leave me on my...no Sherlock." The last said with finality. John positioned himself strategically in the doorway and folded his arms, satisfied that despite his lesser height he presented a perfectly solid obstacle that his flatmate wasn't getting around.

"John I don't have time for games," Sherlock uttered, impatiently, as he knotted his scarf.

"That's good because I'm not playing."

"Neither am I. I am of no use trapped in this flat. Out there, I can find out what happened to the child's mother."

John faltered somewhat at the mention of the Anna's missing mum. He had made her a promise after all. "How?" he demanded, simply, refusing to yield until he had answers.

"Investment," Sherlock replied, with a quicksilver smirk, sliding his wallet into his inner pocket.

"The...the homeless network," John said, catching on.

"Precisely."

Sherlock strode into the kitchen and out through the side door before John had even realised he'd been bypassed.

"Wait!" he called from the top of the stairs as that dark head quickly disappeared downwards. "When will you be back?"

"Don't wait up," came the breezy response and the front door slammed.

"Damn." John's smacked his hand against the banister. He chafed at the thought of being forced to stay put while Sherlock swanned about London on the case. And outraged that he'd literally been left holding the baby.

_This must be how stay at home mums feel_, he thought, sourly.

He returned to the common room and slumped down on the sofa. Anna continued to sleep the sleep of the innocent. John sighed, picked up a magazine and prepared to settle in for the night.

END OF CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Four Men and a Baby

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Category: Adventure/Humour

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of prostitution and drug use

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia.

Author's Notes: Series three confirmed but no more from the dynamic duo for a year /weep. I kinda missed Sarah in the second series. Also, looking for some funny at the moment, does anyone know if there's any fanfic stories based on the Without a Clue premise? Watch it if you've never seen it, I think the Reichenbach writers did...

OoOoO

**John**

It was a rude, snorting, spluttering of an awakening, elbow slipping off the sofa arm and body jerking sideways as its support suddenly fell away. Catching himself, heart hammering in his chest, John slowly flexed the feeling back into his numbed fingers, shaking out the pricking of pins and needles from where he'd been resting his head against his palm. Morning light was streaming weakly through the curtains, the colour typically London-pale.

Dragging a rough hand across his face, he stifled a groan as he wearily pushed to his feet, back protesting and even his good leg leaden, and crossed to the kitchen to make a coffee for himself and a bottle for their uninvited guest.

The sink was already a mess, with spilled formula, a couple of used bottles that needed washing then sterilising. Damp cloths littered the table and a full nappy sack was stacked up against the already overflowing bin. He had been inured to living space chaos thanks to Sherlock, but how people normally coped with babies he would never know. It had been seven hours since they'd found the baby on the doorstep. Seven hours of waiting and feeding and cleaning and soothing, then back to waiting for the next round to begin. He was now attuned to the faintest of sounds like some superhuman baby monitor, ready to jerk awake at the slightest gurgle. Seven hours of hell and John could remember one time only when he'd felt as bone-deep exhausted as he did now and that had been a tour in enemy-infested Afghanistan.

_It's a miracle that people are even willing to keep reproducing_, he thought, and wondered briefly if Sarah was at all interested in adoption.

With a grimace he rotated his neck in a vain attempt to loosen the stiffened muscles, slouched one hip against the counter as he waited, the kettle jug springing to life. Running over London chasing murderers and suspects and risking his life against unhinged criminal masterminds was one thing. Sleep deprivation and missing out on breakfast, dinner and tea was entirely another, both of which John did badly without. He considered that maybe he should write a list for his flatmate; the Care and Upkeep of John Watson.

Fighting off the urge to giggle as he compiled a growing list in his head, John wondered if he was finally cracking, the seductive siren call of his bed gone from being a simple, subdued minuet a few hours ago to a full out chorus line now. Even the mere image of his pillow was irresistable, recalling soft, fluffy cotton against his face, sinking pleasurably down into blissful unconscious...

A noise from the common room and his eyes snapped open of their own volition, his body protesting that yes, he really could lay down on a hard kitchen floor for a quick forty winks. No one would know... Shaking his head, John turned to the boiled kettle and began fumbling through his morning routine. At least one person in the flat had to remain sane and coffee would be his quickest route.

He returned to the common room minutes later, the warmth of the beverage doing more to revive him than the caffeine itself.

He'd already loaded copious amounts into his system over the last few hours that he was surprised and disappointed he wasn't bouncing off the walls like a hyperactive Sherlock Holmes on a four patch problem - nicotine seemingly being the Consulting Detective's brand of catnip. And still John felt he had all the energy of a deflated football being kicked against a wall.

Settling Anna comfortably onto his lap, he adjusted position so she could see the wall behind him as he fed her. He'd realised earlier with some surprise, and a near perforated ear drum, that she'd developed a strange fascination with the faded yellow face Sherlock had spray painted onto the wall two months before and would wail in an instant if it was taken out of sight. Her little hands reached out to the bullet ridden grafitti, eyes fixated as she drank.

Trust Sherlock to create something out of his destructive boredom that only a child could appreciate.

Dutifully, he went through the rote of wiping and burping and changing and, this time, making funny faces until she started to get sleepy once again and he could lay her down to grab a bare few minutes of respite for himself.

Shoving the Union Jack cushion under his head he curled up on the sofa, wrapping his arms around his chest and snuggling his chin down in sheer contentedness.

He had barely closed his eyes, a warm and well earned sleep beckoning, when an ominous rumble against the coffee table's surface threatened to chase it all away.

"Not now," he murmured, hoping, _praying_, that that thought would transmit through the airwaves and whoever was calling would sod off.

A few moments of silence in which he was teetering on the edge of oblivion, then another reverberation and he huffed in annoyance, fumbling for the offending object, resisting the urge to turn it off and chuck it over his shoulder. That would have been too Sherlock-_esque_ and he really, _really_ wasn't going to tell whoever was calling to piss off and let him sleep. Especially if it was one of those pre-recorded payment protection cold calls, because then he'd have to fetch his gun...

It was Sarah.

A couple of breezy text messages to remind him about surgery that morning and John checked his watch then covered his eyes with a despairing hand. _How _had he forgotten? There was no use for it. He'd have to let her down. Again.

A point was looming in their relationship that, despite what they shared together, she'd have to let her most unreliable locum to date go. And maybe the thought would eventually cross her mind, if by some miracle it hadn't already, that John wasn't exactly the most reliable boyfriend in the world either. One that had almost been blown to kingdom come and neglect to mention that niggling fact until she'd stumbled over it on his blog.

The slam of the front door, light footsteps trotting up the stairs and John uncovered his eyes. Sherlock swept into the room, appearing as dapper and alert as when he'd left. Damn the man.

"Any luck?" John forced himself to ask, grimacing at his dry, croaking voice as he shoved himself upright.

The younger man shot him a look as he shed his outer coat and scarf, one eyebrow raised either at the question or John's clearly unkempt appearance. "You of all people should know I don't rely on _luck_." The last word uttered with a cluck of the tongue.

_Of course not_. It was too early and John was too tired for a verbal sparring. "I mean with the mother, found her yet?"

"The mother...? No, not yet," was the vague, distracted response as Sherlock shucked the morning's post onto the desk, then wrinkled his nose in thought. "Going for a shower. Probably for the best considering where I've been, wouldn't want you and Lestrade worrying about _hygiene_." Said with a mocking, scandalous glint in John's direction. "And yes coffee would be appreciated."

He breezed out of the room in much the same manner as he had entered, leaving his blogger agape on the sofa.

It took a lot to anger the likes of John Watson but a fuse was suddenly lit and he leapt to his feet, barged into the stairwell.

"No that's fine Sherlock," he called, tightly, up the stairs. "It's more important that the world's only consulting detective is _clean_, isn't it? It's more important that you have your coffee. Never mind me. Never mind that I've been up all _bloody night_!" He practically bellowed the latter.

He listened expectantly but there was no response and he stomped back into the common room when he heard water start.

Seething, John grabbed the magazine he'd been reading the night before, snapping mindlessly to somewhere in the middle, eyes scanning the latest body tanning products. He shouldn't put up with this, he knew. He felt like some downtrodden housewife, which was ridiculous because Sherlock was his flatmate, they weren't together and John wasn't his keeper. He angrily thumbed through the glossy pages. But here he was, stuck looking after some spoilt rotten child.

And he _didn't _mean the baby.

_No_, he thought, abruptly, slapping the magazine down onto the coffee table. No he didn't have to be the one to look after Sherlock I'm-a-self-obsessed-git Holmes. Maybe it was time for Sherlock to do the looking after. Maybe he'd learn for once how hard it could be.

A glance at the sleeping baby and John's resolve wavered, then steadied as he saw the clock on the mantle. It wouldn't do too much harm to teach Sherlock a small, _tiny_ lesson in consideration for others. A little humility would do him the world of good.

That John would get immeasurable satisfaction out of his humbling experience was merely an added bonus.

OoOoO

A fresh shirt sans regurgitated baby milk, hair finger-combed into a passable state, John was brushing his teeth in the kitchen sink, feeling slightly more human after a bit of toast and jam, when Sherlock finally deigned to reappear. Black curls damp and wearing his old blue dressing gown, he appeared unfairly sharp for someone who hadn't slept in at least two days.

"I made you that coffee," John greeted, pleasantly, as the younger man prowled past and deftly snatched up the mug without word. "You're welcome."

"Not much to be done now," Sherlock mused, leaning back against the table behind John to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Haste doesn't appear to be in Lestrade's vocabulary."

John rinsed his mouth, wiped his face on the tea cloth. "Well that's good," he said, cheerfully, as he retrieved his brown tweed coat from the back of the kitchen chair and shrugged into it. "Means you have plenty of time on your hands."

Sherlock's eyes suddenly darted over his flatmate's movements and quickly narrowed. It didn't take a genius to see that deductions were popping neatly into line like cherries on a slot machine.

"John, why are you dressed for work?"

"Because I have work," John replied, mildly. Revenge wasn't something he would particularly revel in, though he was more than willing to make an exception in this case.

"But...the infant." Sherlock pushed upright, looking slightly puzzled as he did on those rare occasions when John did or said something he simply didn't understand.

Like wishing him 'happy birthday' or introducing him to classic James Bond. Or the vacuum for that matter.

It was nice, those exceptional occurences when John became 'indeductable' to the great Sherlock Holmes. He almost wished he had a camera handy for the adrift look Sherlock was sporting, head cocked like a dog that was attempting to learn a new trick.

"Notes are in here," John said, placing it on the table. "Milk is in the fridge. Wipes are over there. Trust me, you'll need them." He gave a brief, sunny smile, squared his shoulders and, with a parade ground swivel, headed out of the kitchen.

"John. John wait!" Sherlock was instantly hot on his heels. "You can't be serious John. You're leaving _it_, with _me_?" He sounded astonished.

At the turn of the stairs, John paused to glance up at his usually unflappable flatmate, the younger man sporting an alarmed and frankly horrified expression.

"Mrs Hudson's train gets in just before ten," he informed him, quietly, taking pity. "I'm not surprised you didn't remember that by the way. So you only have to watch _her _for a couple of hours." He turned and took the last steps down into the hallway below. "Be good while I'm gone!" he called up.

As he left the flat he thought he heard the words 'A couple of _hours_?' echoed in an outraged tone.

OoOoO

"Blimey, what happened to you?"

Her tone was deceptively mild, but he'd seen her double take and she couldn't disguise the fact that she was eyeing him up and down over the edge of her clipboard, clearly wondering what he'd been dragged through to turn up at the surgery looking like that.

John gave her a terse smile, ignored the looks he was being given from the patients in the heaving waiting room. "I'll give you one guess, it has two words and the last word ends in 'selfish prat'."

"Right." The way Dr Sarah Sawyer hovered over the word told him she wasn't sure whether to ask. "Kept you up all night did he?"

"If it helps, I'd rather it had been you," he replied, keeping his voice low and soft, and she bit the top of her pen, a speculative look in her eye.

She turned back to her clipboard, visibly shaking herself out of whatever thoughts his words had created. "Well you're in your usual room and your first patient of the day is already waiting for you."

"Right. Mrs Turing and her dodgy knee again I take it?" Behind them a young child screamed shrilly and John winced. "Look, uh, I know I shouldn't ask but any chance I could take some of the quieter ones today?"

"Oh?" she asked, playfully. "I would have thought an army doctor like yourself would enjoy a bit of excitability."

"Trust me," he muttered, with a world weary smile, "after the night I've had, quiet is good."

Settling in for a long morning, he wasn't surprised to hear the buzz of his mobile, the text alert seeming to take on the quality of a whine. He ignored it, and the three subsequent messages, finishing Mrs Turing's examination and seeing the elderly lady to the door before turning to his phone.

He sighed, his expectations confirmed. "What are you doing Sherlock?" he murmured, as he thumbed to his inbox.

Surely he couldn't have run into trouble in just half an hour...

END OF CHAPTER FIVE


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Four Men and a Baby

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Category: Adventure/Humour

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of prostitution and drug use

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221 Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia.

Author's Notes: After the emo that was Reichenbach, I needed to write a little humour. At Sherlock's expense - what a git for leaving John like that! Not sure how it translates, never sent a text in my life! Next up, Mycroft.

Wonder what 'biggie' the viewers have missed. Or is Moffat a liar liar pants on fire...

Additional AN: If you're enjoying this story, or indeed many other stories, please see my profile.

OoOoO

**Sherlock**

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:33am**

Making noise.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:34am**

Nothing in notes.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:36am**

John.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:41am**

John come at once.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**9:52am**

Busy.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**9:53am**

Woke her up?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:53am**

No.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:54am**

Perhaps.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:55am**

It matters why?

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**9:56am**

Talk nicely.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:56am**

PLEASE John will you be so kind as to give me your expert insight into infant behaviour.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**9:57am**

Didn't mean me but keep going...

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:57am**

Do shut up and help.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**9:58am**

Not so nice.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**9:58am**

Tickle her tummy.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:58am**

Not good. Something else.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**9:59am**

Please.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10.00am**

Better.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:00am**

Show her funny face.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:01am**

No.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:01am**

Not to alarm, but might be cameras in flat...

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:04am**

Ridiculous!

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:05am**

May have frightened it...

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:08am**

Meant yellow wall face!

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:08am**

Oh.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:08am**

No appreciation of art.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:09am**

Try tele.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:11am**

Crying now.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:12am**

...Jeremy Kyle?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:12am**

Now showing no signs of stopping. Intolerable.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:13am**

Shut up not working either.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:14am**

Babies cry. What they do. Get used to it.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:14am**

Impossible.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:14am**

John are you there?

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:15am**

John I am sending you research material on the disruption of the adult cognitive function caused by an infant's cry so you will understand the gravitas of the situation.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:16am**

It needs you.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:17am**

I'M AT BLOODY WORK!

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:17am**

SHE Sherlock. SHE.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:17am**

What difference does it make!

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:17am**

Oh, _female_.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:17am**

Clearly at difficult age between gestation and expiration.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:18am**

Getting hungry.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:18am**

Food at 221.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:19am**

Not me. Baby.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:19am**

Wait, Mrs Hudson not back?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:19am**

Train delayed.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:20am**

Oh bugger...

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:21am**

Leaves, cows on line?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:21am**

Train, apparently.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:21am**

...

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:21am**

Network Rail, no imagination anymore.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:22am**

No good. Follow notes. Feed her. You can manage.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:23am**

Still there?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:25am**

SHERLOCK!

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:33am**

Sherlock, answer your bloody phone.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:41am**

What's going on?

JW

...

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:44am**

You left that kid alone with Sherlock. Unbelievable.

GL

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:45am**

Mrs Hudson meant to be there!

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:46am**

Wait, how come you know?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:48am**

HE pulled me out of operational meeting with SCD.

GL

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**10:50am**

Hungry baby qualifies as emergency. Apparently.

GL

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:51am**

...

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:52am**

Oh god, so, so sorry Inspector.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**10:54am**

Baby ok?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:06am**

Yes.

GL

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:07am**

Lot of noise, bit of a tantrum, fine now.

GL

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:09am**

And Sherlock?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:12am**

Meant Sherlock.

GL

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:14am**

TY Inspector. Sorry for the bother.

JW

...

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:47am**

Something wrong.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:48am**

With baby?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:48am**

Yes.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:48am**

OMW.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:48am**

Adequate temperature, formula and sleep but unable to settle. Deduced it had soiled itself.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:49am**

Judging by smell, discoloration and consistency something clearly wrong with child.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:50am**

Seriously? Was halfway down corridor...

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:50am**

Baby poop like that.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:50am**

Odd.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:53am**

Wait, nappy change?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:53am**

You? Sherlock Holmes?

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:53am**

Detective Inspector Lestrade refused summons.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:54am**

As did Miss Hooper.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:54am**

Stop laughing John.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:55am**

...

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**11:55am**

Sorry.

JW

...

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**11:59am**

Is there a method to securing monstrosities or just supposed to fall off?

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**12:00pm**

Himitsu Bako puzzle simpler. Why is tape uselessly thin?

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**12:03pm**

Do your best. Home in an hour.

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE RECEIVED:**

**12:06pm**

No hurry. Had idea.

SH

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**12:09pm**

What idea?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**12:11pm**

Sherlock?

JW

**TEXT MESSAGE SENT:**

**12:15pm**

SHERLOCK!

JW

END OF CHAPTER SIX


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Four Men and a Baby

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Category: Adventure/Humour

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of prostitution and drug use

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221 Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia.

Author's Notes: Just a heads up, without reviews I have no idea how many of you are still following this story, got spammed by Story Alert emails after the last two chapters so I know there's a fair few recent peeps, to say the least...Hope you're still enjoying either way : )

OoOoO

**Mycroft**

Sturdy wood shook as booted feet thundered up the frayed, carpeted stairs, conquering the steps two at a time. Above, a haunting composition was being drawn out over a sweet but somber A-string, a strain that neither slipped nor faltered at the commotion. Hearing the morose music from the street below hadn't allayed John's fears one bit and he'd slapped a note into the taxi driver's open palm without pausing for change, diving headlong out of the cab and into 221.

Reaching the top of the stairwell, he burst into the flat's common room, taking several strides before frantic thoughts gave way to confusion at the unfolding scene.

Sherlock, dressed in his usual blue suit, cut a solitary figure at the window, violin tucked beneath his chin and his back to all else, clearly rapt within notes of his own construction. The intermittent rise and fall of the bow continued to render the exquisite, melancholy melody John had heard on his way up. _A sublime symphony of thoughts_, was once how Sherlock had described his musical introspections, a maestro conducting the orchestral equivalent of neurons and synapses into a flawless crescendo of intellectual prowess.

At the time, listening to that high sounding definition, frankly twaddle as far as John was concerned, he'd been forced to concede being woken up at 3am by classical music was preferable to being woken by the thud of bullets. Or chemical explosions. Or furniture being upended as Sherlock frantically searched for the skull Mrs Hudson insisted on tidying away.

But it was the other person, ubiquitous umbrella leaning against one side of John's armchair, baby cradled on top of bespoke Savile Row cloth, that truly caught John by surprise. He hadn't noticed any black, unmarked cars idling inconspicuously outside. Any young, blackberry-obsessed women dressed for an evening's do loitering nearby.

"Good afternoon Dr Watson." Mycroft greeted him, genteelly, imperturbed by his abrupt entrance. He offered John an urbane smile, before turning his attention back to his younger brother's performance.

"Mycroft...hi," John said, uncertainly, glancing between the two men then down to the baby, Anna. "Is she...?"

"She's fine," Mycroft assured him, with a fond glance downwards that belied his usually cool demeanor.

Her gaze was wandering between Mr Happy the Yellow Wall Face, and the direction of Sherlock's playing but didn't seem distressed. Quite the opposite in fact.

"Our father used to play to Sherlock when he was this young, too."

John blinked, hovering between dropping down onto the sofa or shaking Sherlock out of his musical fugue to ask him what brilliant 'idea' he'd had for the baby. "Sorry, what?"

"Hard to imagine, isn't it, my brother as a small child."

"And here I thought he was hatched," John muttered.

"They say babies are remarkably apt at learning," Mycroft continued, as if he hadn't heard. "Perhaps she'll grow up to be a cellist, certainly something in the Hornbostel-Sachs range of chordophones, don't you think? It does run in the family."

Abandoning both the sofa and the admittedly tempting notion of strangling his flatmate where he stood, John pulled out the desk chair closest and sank down with an audible sigh, relishing the sheer bliss of being off his feet. It was only then the other man's words struck him. "Didn't Sherlock tell you...?"

The musical rendition came to an abrupt halt. "Tell whom what?" Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of one blue eye, seemingly back to what mere mortals deemed reality. "John," he said, in greeting, before swivelling towards his case.

The way he pulled up short at the sight of his brother told John he hadn't been aware of the other man until now, entirely lost within his own peculiar thought process. Sherlock spared Mycroft an unpleasant scowl, before setting his instrument aside.

"So wonderful to hear you play, little brother," Mycroft told him. "It's been several years since I last heard that particular piece from your repertoire. Entirely appropriate in this instance, of course."

"What do you want Mycroft?" There was a sigh and a snarl in Sherlock's impatient, impertinent question.

"Why, simply to greet the latest member of the Holmes bloodline of course."

Mycroft's smile was more a Cheshire grin and John sighed, pushed to his feet, unwilling to be caught in the crossfire between siblings. Not today. Let Sherlock explain it, if he wanted to. Crossing to the kitchen, his stomach rumbled in anticipation and he wondered, if by some miracle, the cheese hadn't yet turned into something resembling one of Sherlock's experiments.

"Tea, Mycroft?" he called over one shoulder as he rummaged through the fridge for the bread and flora, thinking to be polite where Sherlock wouldn't dream to be.

"He's not staying," Sherlock answered, curtly, over his brother's declining reply.

"Now Sherlock," Mycroft chided, still in that purring tone that John just knew would set the consulting detective on edge as surely as fingernails scraped over a chalkboard. "I did once ask John about a happy announcement between the two of you. Mummy would have been disappointed. A child out of wedlock is such a shame."

"Oh for the love of..." John stomped back into the room, pointing a buttered knife at Sherlock. "Will you just explain it to him?"

"Why waste breath on what he already knows." John bit back a curse and headed back to his in-progress lunch. "And I'm still waiting for an answer Mycroft. Why are you here?"

"Merely to see how you are coping. Babies can be quite a handful. And expensive. I might even have to raise your allowance."

"Raise my allowance..."

John closed his eyes, praying for strength, as he heard Sherlock echo the words. Trust Mycroft to go straight for the jugular. It was a bone of contention between the brothers, one they rarely failed to squabble over once the matter was raised. Sherlock had been earning a decent amount through his consulting detective business before John had come along, but it hadn't been enough for London living, not without a flatshare. Something John was finding himself increasingly grateful for, considering the alternative.

"_That's my inheritance Mycroft,_" he heard the younger man spit out, viciously, clearly not sharing the sentiment.

"Indoor voice Sherlock. And when I'm assured that you will handle that money in an able fashion, I'll allow you access to more of it."

Mycroft's soft, near paternal reply was unable to fully disguise the patronising rebuke and a quick glance into the room told John Sherlock was pacing now, flexing his bow like he was prepared to snap it in two in lieu of the better, less malleable target sitting before him.

Roughly slicing the bread into halves, John piled the pieces onto a plate and headed back to play the role of the UN. He offered one to Sherlock who spared both him and it a derisive, delicate wrinkling of his nose, before resuming his restless pacing. Shrugging, John sat down to tuck in, enthusiasm undampened by the strained silence. He figured he'd need fortification before their altercation was done with.

"Put's new meaning to the phrase 'eating for two' I suppose," Mycroft murmured, under his breath, seeing their exchange with a slight frown.

"You would know," Sherlock rejoined instantly, with an unkind sneer.

Coughing on a crumb, John quickly swallowed. "Ladies, please." He nodded at the baby. "Not in front of the children."

Mycroft looked down and gave an ingratiating smile. "I suppose you won't be keeping her."

The smooth change of subject wasn't really posed as a question. _How could it be_? John wondered. "Well no, not once we find her mother," he supplied, taking another bite. He hadn't realised how hungry he was until he'd started, now he felt famished. "She'll want her back. Obviously."

At his words Mycroft's smile faltered, Sherlock's pacing conspicuously slowed. Both brothers shared a sudden, perceptive look, Mycroft's containing the hint of surprise in a minutely raised eyebrow, Sherlock's somewhat subdued, like a little boy caught with his hand in the biscuit tin and not quite ready to own up to it.

"What?" John demanded, into the heavy silence. He could pinpoint the exact moment he'd been excluded from their oh so clever intrigues and he was tired of being too slow to catch on to whatever clues or deductions they'd pulled out of seemingly thin air. "What? What have I missed. Because I know that look, you're both wearing it." He pointed his half-eaten cheese sandwich accusingly at them. "The one that says John's too bloody slow and stupid, so let's not spoil the surprise for him."

"Really Dr Watson," Mycroft protested, seemingly a little taken aback as he chuckled at John's sudden vehemence. "I'm sure Sherlock has informed you of all the relevant details. Isn't that right, little brother?"

The way he lingered on the last words in a soft, taunting voice, deliberately tossing the proverbial ball into Sherlock's court, drew John's focus back to the younger man. Sherlock kept his gaze locked on his brother, looking both put out and angry.

"_Don't _interfere in my cases, Mycroft," he warned, sharply, after a moment.

"I wouldn't dream of it," was the smooth, near supercillious reply.

John darted a look between them, sensing a silent battle of wills, of egos, neither brother appearing willing to break the impasse. He cleared his throat, pointedly.

"Can I just...you both know I'm still here, right?" he complained, disgruntled at being so abruptly ignored once more.

A couple of raps at the door and John's ears pricked up. "Two knocks, that's..."

"Lestrade," Sherlock finished. He set his bow aside, pushing away from the desk and striding purposefully to the door, clearly all too willing to break the stalemate with his brother in favour of something a whole lot more interesting. "He's late."

His footsteps descended in haste, then faint, murmured voices from downstairs. John frowned. He could hardly tiptoe to the top of the stairs to eavesdrop over the banister like a kid spying on its parents' dinner party, not with Mycroft sitting right there, but he strained to glean what was being said in that subdued conversation nonetheless.

"You were right. My people found it an hour ago." Lestrade.

"Condition?"

"Pretty bad."

"Professional?"

"As they go."

"I need to see."

"Thought you might. What about the kid?"

"With John."

"Have you told him yet?"

"...no."

John glanced to see that Mycroft was studying him, carefully.

"He's hiding something, isn't he." It wasn't a question and if John had been looking for visual clues in the other's face, he was disappointed. Mycroft remained, as ever, as inscrutable as the Great Sphinx of Giza. "I'll find out when they come up," he determined, mostly to himself, after several moments of silence, tap tapping at the arm of his chair as he waited.

"That might prove difficult," Mycroft supplied, with a backward nod to the door. "Considering that Sherlock has liberated his coat and is, even as we speak, leaving with the Detective Inspector."

John stared for a moment, then flung himself out of the chair, rushing downstairs and outside onto the pavement...in time to see Lestrade's unmarked police car vanishing down the street.

"Shit." He ignored the curious stares of the customers outside the cafe. "Damn you Sherlock."

Back inside, Mycroft had transferred the baby back into her woven basket, was gently rocking the wicker. "I see Sherlock has left you holding the baby, as it were," he commented.

"Already done that joke," John muttered, under his breath, as he traipsed to the window to peer out. He knew not to bother to text. Sherlock had already successfully ignored his phone for half the afternoon, though at least it had meant he hadn't fallen asleep at the surgery this time, too worried about Sherlock's bloody 'idea', left to speculate on what that meant for the baby.

He itched to go after them though, grab a cab or take the tube, except he didn't have a clue what was going on or even _where _it was going on. Being forced to remain at the flat when a case was in progress cut against the grain. The adventurous solider in him chafed at the restraint too, eager to be out there, searching crime scenes, chasing criminals. Not tied down looking after a baby.

Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Mycroft with Anna, and an idea suddenly bloomed.

"No John," Mycroft said, kindly, into the silence.

"I...didn't say anything," he pointed out, carefully.

Mycroft straightened, turned to collect his umbrella. "According to my brother, I have a country to run. As delightful as it would have been to revisit some old memories, I'm afraid he is quite correct in that I am a rather busy man."

He'd guessed, _deduced_, what John had been about to ask. Couldn't blame him for trying though. John hesitated, unsure whether to ask. "Old memories?"

"Of course," Mycroft replied, as if it were self-evident. "You may have noticed the considerable age disparity between myself and my younger brother, Dr Watson. Sherlock may resent my interference, my..._concerns_, as it were, but it is difficult for me to forget a time when he too was once as this child, dependent on such care. Verily impossible to erase a lifetime of brotherly obligation, wouldn't you say?"

"He had your parents. At least I thought he did, from what he's told me." He added that last carefully, diplomatically, acutely aware he was stepping around what could potentially be a minefield of personal family matters. John knew all too well, from unhappy experience, that some things should remain private.

Mycroft studied the tip of his umbrella, before offering a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Our father was a diplomat, away on business for much of our formative years. The only person Sherlock even listened to, in fact," he finished, with a tinge of exasperation. "Our mother at that time was given to flights of fancy. More so once our father's...indiscretions, came to light." He seemed rendered somewhat uncomfortable by the blunt revelations.

"Why are you telling me this, Mycroft?" John asked, quietly, after a moment, instinctive habit of concern and care kicking in, a doctor's intuition, his own innate compassion.

And it struck John. Looking after Sherlock, Mycroft had been little more than a kid himself. All that responsibility heaped on his young shoulders. No matter how clever he had been, how bright or intelligent, it wasn't something that any young boy should have had to have coped with.

"No need for pity, Dr Watson, I can assure you."

"I wasn't," John replied, quickly but honestly enough. "Just...it begins to make sense. Some of it anyway. You and Sherlock...the way you are with him."

"And he I," Mycroft finished, with a small, regretful grimace.

"Actually," John said, thoughtfully, "that part? Not so much. I'd like to know, though," he added, gently.

Mycroft considered him for a moment, his gaze almost frighteningly sharp, and John wondered briefly if he'd overstepped his permit, before a melodious ringtone chimed to interrupt.

Drawing out the device, Mycroft stared for a moment at his phone, before slipping it discretely back inside his suit pocket. "Another time, it seems."

"Ok, well, thanks," John said, and Mycroft looked momentarily surprised. John meant it. "Thanks for coming."

"It was no trouble, I assure you." Mycroft spared the basket a thoughtful look. "It's hard, sometimes...caring for something so clearly incapable of looking after itself. And yet so difficult to do otherwise. Impossible, really."

"Are we still talking about the baby? Because if we're talking about Sherlock, Lestrade has already done that joke. Sort of," John amended, with a smile.

Mycroft echoed that smile. "Get some rest, John. I shall see myself out." He cast one final glance over Anna, a perturbed frown creasing his forehead. "Although, I fear my brother has left you a small puzzle that will no doubt keep you _wrapped _up for a little while to come."

"Right," John said, to the empty room, once the elder Holmes had left.

He moved to sit on the sofa, watching the baby watch Sherlock's wall face. "So, you can tell me, what did Sherlock do? His 'great' idea?" She made a slight gurgling noise, but nothing else. "Oh, not talking then. He's got you wrapped round his little finger too." He rubbed her tummy, then sniffed, pulling a face. "...and that's why Mycroft suddenly had to leave. No great deductions there," he finished, with a sigh, stooping to pick her up.

He suddenly froze as she made a strange, plastic, crackling noise and John spared her a suspicious glance. Why on Earth would she sound like a Christmas present...

"Oh god," he said, after a moment, in sinking realisation. "Please tell me he didn't."

She did no such thing yet a minute later, he was finally able to uncover exactly what Sherlock's answer to the dilemma of the crap nappy tape had been.

Disbelieving and despairing, John gazed helplessly at the swathes of parcel tape wrapped haphazardly, layer after layer, around her nappy, securing it in place. A tornado couldn't have torn it off. And at that moment, the baby kicked her legs, as if just daring him to come close with anything sharp.

Resting his hands on either side of the table, John contemplated Anna with benign regard, who looked back with trusting baby blues. He offered her a beatific smile.

"I. Am going. To kill him," he promised her, sweetly.

END OF CHAPTER SEVEN


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Four Men and a Baby

Author: Milliecake

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Category: Adventure/Humour

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of prostitution and drug use

Disclaimer: Do not own, just a fan creation

Summary: When an infant is found abandoned on the doorstep to 221 Baker Street, Sherlock and John find themselves caught in a battle between Social Services, Scotland Yard...and the Russian Mafia.

Author's Notes: Please see main warnings for this chapter. Also, why haven't the beeb transcribed their series into book format? I love ACD of course, but be good to see a Study in Pink alongside a Study in Scarlet on Amazon one day.

OoOoO

**John**

A tender hand stroked his forehead, the touch infinitely gentle as soft fingertips swept the fine hairs aside and John found himself coaxed upwards into the tides of consciousness.

"Sherlock?" he mumbled, groggily, cranking one eye open, only to wince under the assault of bright daylight. He hadn't been sleeping all that long, he guessed, as both mind and body began to protest in unison.

The touch withdrew and John reached up to scrub away the lingering tendrils of a far too short a nap, looking instinctively toward the basket...and his heart jolted a sudden, frantic beat, a burst of adrenalin as he saw rumpled blankets, the empty wicker...

"Not _quite _what I was expecting."

He jumped at the voice, swung round.

"Hi." Perched casually on the arm of the sofa, one knee drawn up, head propped by a hand, Sarah raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"What? Sarah...hi. Where's...?" John floundered, still barely awake...just as Mrs Hudson shuffled into view, baby in the crook of her arm, the older woman cooing and fussing delightedly.

"Oh isn't she just _lovely_," the older woman crooned in a hushed voice. "Wish I'd got back much sooner."

"Oh, Mrs Hudson," John breathed, slumping back into the cushions in desperate relief, one hand above his still thumping heart, the other splayed over his eyes. "So do I." The last muttered with faint fervor.

He could still feel the tacky glue under his fingernails from where he'd been forced to rip tape apart piecemeal, could smell the formula that had long dried on his shirt and tie, both clean on that morning. With Mrs Hudson now back at 221 he could finally relax. Maybe slip out of his work clothes and into something more comfortable...like a coma.

"So," Sarah began, blithely, "does your flatmate usually wake you up like that?"

John uncovered his face, momentarily confused, then recalled with excruciating humiliation the name he'd uttered as she'd woken him up. He silently cursed Sherlock, absent yet still somehow managing to mess things up for him with Sarah. He could feel the tips of his ears starting to burn.

"I mean, I could see how you might confuse us..." she continued, off handedly.

"No," he cut her off, shaking his head at her. "I was...it's not like th...I was still asleep!" He quickly muted his protest at Mrs Hudson's sudden glower.

"...right." Sarah tucked a straying strand behind her ear, unsuccessfully suppressing a tiny smirk, before nodding towards the baby. "You didn't tell me you were kept up all night by another female. Should I be jealous?"

"Of Anna?" John considered, cocking his head. "Well she's certainly demanding. Needs prompt attention, food at the right time or not at all, likes graffiti, makes a lot of noise. Still, I'm used to all that living with Sherlock." He offered her a wry smile.

"Oh, so is this one of your cases?"

He could understand her uncertainty, the hesitancy with which she asked. Her experience with one of their more lively cases had involved their kidnapping by Chinese gangsters, deadly circus equipment primed to kill her, a murderous wall-climbing assassin...meeting Sherlock. And he still wasn't sure which event of that evening had been the most traumatic.

Sherlock's cases weren't always safe, even John would be the first to admit. If he were honest, thinking of serial killing cab drivers and seven foot tall assassins and maniacs who liked to explode things, be it flats, swimming pools or people, they rarely were. Truth be told, he wouldn't have it any other way. He wasn't getting any younger but he'd be damned if he entered the wrong side of forty with nothing but a dodgy limp, an army pension and a quiet, retiring life to look forward to. There was still some adventuring left in his old soldier's bones yet.

He hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Sort of," he replied, at last, not entirely sure how to answer. "Someone left her on our doorstep. Out in the rain, poor kid. Sherlock's been trying to find the mother ever since and I've been left holding the...the fort here, I suppose."

"Holding the baby?" she quipped, with a quick grin, and he sighed. That joke was getting very old, very fast. "So, was this to do with all the texting you did today at work?" Her question was deceptively mild.

John groaned, giving her a frank look. "There were complaints." It wasn't a question.

"Just a couple." She was being polite now.

"I'm so, so sorry. It was Sherlock. Wait what am I saying, it's always Sherlock," he muttered the last. "He couldn't cope."

"With the baby? You left him alone with her?"

Now both eyebrows were raised and he couldn't blame her. Her few and far between interactions with Sherlock - rude, abrasive, high strung - hadn't exactly endeared her to him. They'd even discussed him a few times, professionally that was, leaving John now hovering over a diagnosis of Aspergers...as opposed to his flatmate simply being an egotistical, anti-social dick. At least she hadn't bought into the sociopath theory, otherwise he was pretty sure dinner at the flat would be out.

"Mrs Hudson was meant to be here," he told her, the defence uttered by rote now. "But," he held up his hands, "I know how that sounds, I shouldn't have left her with Sherlock. Even if he did _somehow _manage in the end. Sort of. I just didn't want to let you down either." He placed his hand over hers, glad when she squeezed back.

"Awww look at you two," Mrs Hudson cut in, softly, wearing a soppy smile. "You know, if you wanted to pop out for a bit of fresh air, I can watch this little one for a bit."

At her words, John felt a giddy swell of sheer relief, an invisible, crushing weight of responsibility being plucked clean off his shoulders, and he pushed to his feet before his landlady could change her mind. "Mrs Hudson, that would be_...fantastic_." He resisted the impulse to grab her shoulders and kiss her as she gave a silly little giggle. A couple of hours of fresh air and a bite to eat with his girlfriend was just what he needed.

And if Mrs Hudson wasn't exactly being subtle in pushing him together with Sarah, well he could live with that too.

"Now, you've got my mobile number..." he began, as he shrugged into his coat.

"I'll call straight away if anything happens," Mrs Hudson promised. "Don't you fret."

He grabbed his wallet, slid it into his pocket. It felt a little light. In his rush to get back from work, he hadn't stopped at the ATM. "There should be a bottle in the fridge."

"Alright dear."

"Clean towels on the dryer."

"We'll be fine, go on now."

"Try not to use parcel tape on her."

"You what?"

"Be good ladies. Ready?" he asked Sarah.

She slipped off the arm of the sofa to join him, snatching her handbag from the table. "If you're sure you wouldn't rather, you know," she gave him an appraising look, "collapse from exhaustion."

He couldn't help a cheerful grin, resisted the urge to eagerly rub his hands together. "Oh no, this is _exactly _what the doctor ordered."

"Self-diagnosis? I'm impressed," she remarked, lightheartedly, as he trailed her down the stairs.

"Just wait til you see what I've put in my prescription notes."

Sarah flattened herself against the wall as he reached around to open the front door, ever the gentleman. "Well I hope it's sleep and lots of it."

"Sleep comes into it," he admitted, softly and she flashed him a hesitant, coy smile, before slipping out.

Oh yes, the afternoon looked as though it would turn out perfectly after all.

OoOoO

Which, looking back, turned out to be a pretty bad deduction, even by John's standards.

Half an hour out from the flat found them tucked away from the world, in an intimate side street cafe, sheltering from a sudden summer squall that hammered the pavements and darkened the sky. Sarah treated them to muffins in lieu of the dinner she'd promised, and they chatted amicably over coffee about her work, his blog, her family, Harry. It was the small stuff he missed sometimes, John realised, the normal, every day problems that passed for most peoples' lives. Work, friends, family, the latest movies, who was dating who, who was leaving who.

Trivialities, Sherlock would instantly decry, before dismissing them as _boring. _So it was Mrs Hudson John would regularly nod a good morning to or share a pot of tea where chit chat involved the weather and her hip...not the rigor mortis composition of a victim of electrocution or how quickly hemoglobin would coagulate in a freshly severed limb, all debated in great and gory detail over morning eggs and toast.

Sometimes John felt like a man astride two worlds, co-existing between the mundane of work, shopping, making dinner, making tea, paying the bills...before rushing off at the drop of a hat, chasing on Sherlock's coattails, charging out into what Mycroft had once aptly termed a field of strife. But his battle was no longer being waged across alien landscapes of searing deserts and barren valleys, instead it was the close quarters of cold, darkened alleyways, tower blocks and glittering skyscrapers. Visits to men wounded by sniper, mortar, IEDs, had become visits to grisly crime scenes in the dead of night where his best endeavors weren't to save or to comfort, but to catalogue.

Brooding thoughts dissipated at the chime of a ringtone, and he fished his phone out of his pocket, darting Sarah an apologetic look as he checked the caller. "Mrs Hudson, hi," he began, "everything alr..."

"Oh Dr Watson, you need to get back right away." She sounded upset, distressed. "I didn't know what to do. They had a sergeant with them and..."

"What? Look calm down. Tell me what's happened." He tried his best to sound calm himself, an army doctor's unshakable demeanor honed over gruelling, harrowing tours where medical aid was administered over the high pitch whine of bullets, the blast of rockets. A bloody stretch of war where a sturdy constitution and an even sturdier hand had been vital.

Mrs Hudson was having none of it. "They took her, I couldn't stop them," she carried on, "I wanted to but I..."

"Someone took the baby? Who?" He was already half out of his chair before her answer came. "Christ," he breathed. "Don't worry Mrs Hudson, I'm on my way," he promised her. "We'll get this sorted."

"They even threatened to arrest me...!"

John hung up. The flat was ten minutes away. Less than half that if he ran, he judged, grabbing for his coat.

He was halfway to the door before pulling up short, heart sinking in dismay, silently berating himself. He had been mere moments from abandoning Sarah without a word or worse, a second thought. John slowly turned back to their table, offering her a look full of self-reproach, of shamed apology.

"I am...so sorry," he began, vaguely aware of the half eaten muffin, the second cup of coffee he'd barely touched and that he was on his third apology to her of the day.

"No, no it's fine," Sarah cut in, brightly, waving a hand. "It sounded important, so off you go. I'll see you tomorrow? At the surgery?" She sounded hopeful.

"Yes. Tomorrow. I'll be there, I promise." He hovered, torn. A crap apology was hardly what she deserved.

Sarah saw his hesitation. "It's alright," she assured him, again, nodding towards the door with a brief smile. "Go on."

"You. Are...amazing," he told her, thinking that amazing didn't quite cover all the adjectives he could use to describe Sarah Sawyer, and he spared a moment to lean down, kissing her cheek, before diving out into the pelting rain.

Hoisting his coat over his head and shoulders for meagre protection, he struck out, dodging through fellow pedestrians and their canopy of umbrellas, through traffic slowed to a near standstill in the downpour, his boots kicking up water from the pavements and gutters as he hurried back to Baker Street.

OoOoO

Lestrade's unmarked police car sat empty outside the flat as John fumbled for his keys, cursing as his wet hand jammed in his dry trouser pocket. A fine mist of drizzle was settling in as the pavements began to steam under the late re-emergence of the summer sun. Predictably, the heavy rain had ceased with a minute to spare before he'd made it back to 221.

Ignoring the trail of wet bootprints he was treading all over Mrs Hudson's hallway carpet, John shucked his drenched coat over the banister and headed upstairs.

"It's fine Mrs Hudson. Really."

"I should have done _something _though."

"There was nothing you could do. Do please shut up now."

The acerbic tone told John it hadn't been the landlady's first attempt at an apology and that Sherlock had lost none of his impatience from earlier that afternoon. Lestrade nodded grimly to John from the kitchen as he passed, the Detective Inspector on his phone.

In the common room, Mrs Hudson was huddled on the sofa, looking small and miserable, hands clasped between her knees, shoulders hunched. She looked up hopefully as John entered. "Dr Watson," she said, then gave him a second, surprised look. "You're a bit wet love."

"Yes," he agreed, after a moment, aware of the moisture plastering his hair, the cuffs of his trousers soaked through. "It's been raining."

Sherlock had already spared him a glance from his armchair, one leg crossed, steepled fingers resting against his chin, but he almost immediately returned a keen gaze to Lestrade, watching the Inspector with an air of hawkish expectation. John hadn't forgotten the tape incident, but there was nothing like a little cool water to dampen his Sherlock-killing mood. For now at least.

"So social services came then," John said, tossing his keys onto the coffee table in defeat.

"Oh John love, I'm so sorry..." Mrs Hudson started up again, causing Sherlock to huff out an irritable sigh, roll a contemptuous eye.

"No, no, it's alright Mrs Hudson, you did your best," John was quick to reassure her, putting a comforting hand around her shoulders. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have left."

"Should I fetch my riding crop for your little group flagellation?" Sherlock interrupted, caustically and John pointedly ignored the spiteful comment. Sherlock was never at his best when he was forced into inertia. "Besides which, your guilt is entirely misplaced."

"Donovan?" John guessed, perching on the sofa's arm.

"Donovan," Sherlock confirmed, wrinkling his nose disparagingly. "Lestrade is seeking to discover where they took the infant as we speak." He raised his eyes to the ceiling, looking somewhat put out as he murmured almost to himself, "She moved fast. As soon as we'd found it_. _I should have known." The last uttered with what to anyone else would have been self-recrimination. With Sherlock, well, he was never kind when it came to stupidity, and could prove especially scathing if he perceived his own intellectual facilities had been found wanting in some way.

"Oh so it's your turn to do the guilt thing then is it," John pointed out, feeling petty. "And found what?"

A furtive glimpse of blue as Sherlock darted a look at him, then clearly thought better of it, brows knitting. "I don't do _guilt_." Said like it was something he would avoid stepping in where possible. "Sociopath, remember? I was merely commenting on Lestrade's absence of haste in this matter and Sergeant Donovan's abundance of it. Leading us to precisely where we are now."

His subtle avoidance of John's latter question didn't go unnoticed, had gone beyond the point of childishness and now all John felt was blazing frustration that he was being shut out. Why now? Why this case?

He leaned forward, but trying to catch and hold that impenetrable gaze was nigh on impossible when the younger man was balking at every turn. "Sherlock. _What _is going on?"

"I had to be sure," the consulting detective answered, after a heartbeat, his voice low, pensive, bringing his fingers to his lips. "There was a chance, a possibility I was wrong. Improbable, I know," he conceded, with an unabashed nod, hardly a paragon of modesty.

John frowned, glancing at Mrs Hudson who looked just as baffled. He couldn't be certain, but it sounded almost as if Sherlock was making some sort of concession. An apology, of sorts.

"Sherlock what are you...?" he began, but was cut off as Lestrade strode into the room, a forceful look on his face.

"I've got the place," he told Sherlock, "but you were right, she's already been taken. We'd better move fast if you still want to do the questioning."

At that, Sherlock bolted out of the chair, a sudden bundle of animated energy in stark contrast to his earlier contemplative repose.

"No. Wait." John stood, holding out his hands. "You're not doing this again, bloody haring off without telling me what's going on."

"Sorry John," Lestrade began, "but with one person dead, we don't have the time to stand around debating this."

"Someone's...someone's dead?" he asked, darting a look between Sherlock and the Detective Inspector. Aware that Sherlock's precise movements in buttoning his coat had slowed, ceased.

"Oh dear," he heard Mrs Hudson put in, faintly.

"The mother. We found her body a few hours ago," Lestrade briefed him, matter of factly. Seeing John's expression, "Wait, he hasn't told you?"

"I...no." John looked down, to the empty space on the coffee table where the basket had sat. "No. No, he hasn't." Had it only been a few hours since he'd cursed the unnamed woman for abandoning her kid? Now...now he knew why she hadn't returned. Would never return, in fact. "Are you..." he cleared his throat, squared himself. Before looking directly at Sherlock, the incontrovertible source of fact. The other man was watching him now, no longer hiding, his blue eyes cold and clear. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." The answer came almost before the question had ended. Sherlock's expression hadn't changed, but his baritone was strangely gentle. "I'm sorry John."

It was a platitude, John was pretty sure of it. Sherlock didn't do sympathy, or condolences, or any of the other things people normally did. He didn't understand sentiment the way most people did either. But John appreciated the thought anyway, because this was Sherlock and even the smallest consideration, even in the guise of pretense was good. A good thing.

"How?" he asked simply.

"It's a homicide investigation." Lestrade confirmed his suspicions.

"They murdered her." John felt unaccountably weary as he closed his eyes. He felt Mrs Hudson's hand on his arm. "For her baby."

"...who's already been claimed and taken from Social Services. I just got off the phone with them."

John shook his head, frowning. "That...that's not procedure," he objected. "There's checks to be done, assessments..."

"No doubt all of which can be circumvented with the right 'motivation'," Sherlock cut in, succinctly, as he finished securing his coat. He raised a cool eyebrow as he passed John. "Care to wager who might have an on-going interest in obtaining this child?"

_They got to her_, John realised, in dismay. _They'd bloody got to her and if he didn't get her back, a woman would have died for nothing._

"Right. I'm coming with you." It wasn't a question. Lestrade would have to arrest him before he let himself get left behind again. Sherlock might not understand sentiment, but John would be damned if he let anything happen to that baby. "We'll get her back," he said, more to himself, as he shrugged into his donkey jacket and followed on the heels of Lestrade and his flatmate.

"Oh please, do your best," he heard Mrs Hudson urge, faintly, behind them.

_Don't worry_, he wanted to reassure her, as the three men descended the stairs. They might have murderers and Russian mafia and bent social workers on their side.

But on his he had Sherlock Holmes. And the consulting detective had never failed a client yet.

Even ones that were only two months old.

END OF CHAPTER EIGHT


End file.
